Title: Love Like BurningRating: PG-13 (for language)Pairing: Past Joe/OCPOV: Third person (OC centric)Summary: She can't do a damn thing without him.Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is fiction, nothing less, nothing more.A/N: Coda to "It's Rare, But It Sometimes Happens". Just a moment in Holly's life, and a memory. I don't know, you guys. My brain won't stop. Song fic to "Not Ready To Make Nice" by The Dixie Chicks. Yes, I used The Dixie Chicks lyrics. Yes, I'm going to fandom hell. Cut text by Fall Out Boy. Oh, and take the lyrics at more than face value. They're going to seem to contradict the story, but you have to decide for yourself who each lyric/line is referring to. There's some for Joe, and some for Patrick, and some for Holly herself. Because it's just not the same if you don't work to decipher it, too :P

Also, I've missed you all <3

"Forgive, sounds goodForget, I’m not sure I could"

She misses him. A fucking lot.

The thing is, though, she’s not so sure she wants him back. They’ve had their good times, and their bad, but. But, she doesn’t know the cost. She’s got a whole goddamn mental list of pros and cons, but she still hasn’t come to a general consensus as to whether or not the “good”s outweigh the “bad”s.

"They say time heals everythingBut I’m still waiting"

So, she’s mostly given up on him. She still sees pictures of him with his new girlfriend, and she still wonders late at night, curled up in a ball on the edge of her (his) mattress. Wonders if he’s doing the same, or if he’s perfectly okay, wrapped up in skin that just isn’t hers.

"I’m through with doubtThere’s nothing left for me to figure out"

The only thing she cares about now, is the kids. She'll fight for them until the day she dies, because, like it or not, they're hers. She's never said anything, but one of her greatest regrets is giving Natalie away. She can't do it again; she can't imagine not waking up and heading straight for their (make-shift) room, slipping her fingers through their curly hair and smiling at them, making everything okay. She's got another on the way, and she knows she can't do it alone, but, fuck, she'll sure as hell try.

"I’ve paid a priceAnd I’ll keep paying"

So when Patrick goes out one night, and she's left alone with the kids, she's determined that she'll be fine. She doesn't need him, or anyone else, to help her.

She goes straight for the kitchen when he leaves, and after rummaging for a while, she finds some soup. It's not exactly filet mignon, but it'll have to do.

And it will, until it burns within ten seconds of her having touched it.

"I’m not ready to make niceI’m not ready to back down"

She nearly balls up on the floor and cries, but instead, she gathers her composure, runs a hand through her hair, and thinks. There's not much else to eat in the house, but she's not feeding her babies take-out. She's won't be a goddamn typical single mother, if she can help it. She'll buy a fucking chef just for herself if that's what it takes.

"I’m still mad as hell andI don’t have time to go round and round and round"

There's some Kraft Dinner in the cupboard, and she almost cries again, but it's what she's got. She puts it on, the heat lower so there's no chance of her ruining it, and grabs a pop from the fridge. It's only when she settles down in front of the TV, with the boys chattering senselessly beside her, that she remembers something.

Payce told her that he and Pete would be interviewed on the news. She looks at the clock, and someone up there must really fucking hate her, because the program starts in a minute. She's got a minute to decide whether or not wants to torture herself half to death, all for the sake of hearing his voice, and she can't possibly make up her mind that fast.

She changes to the right channel.

"It’s too late to make it rightI probably wouldn’t if I could"

They're not on first, or anything. She sits impatiently through pointless news reports, accounts of deaths and gang fights and wars, and wonders how it's possible that the news anchor doesn't understand that her internal war dwarfs all others, at the moment. She fidgets and shakes and grabs Nate's tiny hand to steady herself, and then.

"And from Rockefeller Center, with Fall Out Boy's bassist and guitarist, we have..."

"‘Cause I’m mad as hellCan’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should"

She laughs a little, turns her head. Rockefeller Center. He took her there when she was pregnant with the twins, she remembers. She'd never been, and god, he'd laughed. Told her that she wasn't even legal to live in New York unless she'd been there. He'd driven them down, waited patiently while she admired the architecture and scenery and other "pregnant women shit". They'd ended up by the skating rink, and she'd blushed when she told him she didn't know how to skate.

"You don't," he says, voice incredulous. "You don't know how to skate? You're Canadian; I thought it was like, a mandatory thing for you guys. To do winter sports, I mean."

"You're an ass," she says, but she doesn't mean a word of it. "No, I don't know how to skate. Yes, it's embarrassing. Is it a good idea to change that? No."

But he's already gone, talking to someone about skate rentals, and by the time she catches up, she knows she's screwed.

"I know you said"Can’t you just get over it?""

"Must I remind you that I'm seven months pregnant?" she interjects, as he fumbles with the laces on her skates. "With twins? Maybe I'm getting it wrong, but I'm pretty sure part of learning how to skate is falling."

"I won't let you fall," he says, halfway to a laugh, and he looks up just as she looks down, biting her lip.

"It turned my whole world aroundAnd I kind of like it"

"Oh, fuck," he says, "you're about to get hormonal on me, aren't you?"

"I hate you so much," she mumbles, the words soft on his neck as she bends to hug him. "Except, not actually."

"I'm adding "mixed messages" to my list of things I hate when we get home," he mutters, but he's still smiling, and he doesn't let go of her once as they head to the rink.

"I made my bed and I sleep like a babyWith no regrets and I don’t mind sayin’It’s a sad sad story when a mother will teach herDaughter that she ought to hate a perfect stranger"

She almost falls, twice. He catches her at the last second both times, laughing his ass off while she holds her huge stomach and glowers.

"You're fucking horrible at this," he chokes out through his laughter, just after her second attempt to face-plant, and if she wasn't so worried about falling, she'd flip him off.

"I think I'm done," she mutters, turning around slowly and gripping the guide rail as tight as she can as she carefully heads towards the exit. She gets a whole three inches before he's behind her, pressing his face to her shoulder and wrapping his arms as far around her stomach as he can.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he sounds anything but. "It's just."

"Just what?" she grumbles, trying her hardest not to let the fact that he's now tracing his lips up her neck deter her from her anger.

"You're just, cute," he says, voice low. "You know. You look so shocked and adorable when you're about to fall, I can't even help it. Plus, you know. You're, like, warm."

"And how in the world can the words that I saidSend somebody so over the edgeThat they’d write me a letterSayin’ that I better shut up and singOr my life will be over?"

His excuse makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, but she's melted anyways, biting her lip and blushing like hell. "You're buying me a damn hot chocolate," she concedes, as he carefully leads her out of the rink. "With whipped cream, Joseph Trohman."

"So pregnant," he fake-coughs, before he meets her stare with a grin and adds, "but. I like it?"

"Damn straight you do."

"I’m not ready to make niceI’m not ready to back down"

She doesn't mean to cry, but she can't even help it. The memory is in her head and his voice is on the TV, saying something about guitars and amps, and he's still here. Of course he is. She can't even get rid of the Joe she has saved in her head.

"I’m still mad as hell andI don’t have time to go round and round and round"

He looks miserable, when she manages to clear the tears from her eyes. His voice is slow, trailing off in a manner that suggests nothing matters, and he looks exhausted. She's almost a little surprised, because. She maybe figured that she was the only one suffering, but.

It's obvious that that's not the case.

"It’s too late to make it rightI probably wouldn’t if I could"

She opens her pop, absentmindedly, and it fizzes over instantly, drenching her clothes in stickiness. She stands up to get a cloth from the kitchen, and it's only then that she notices that she's forgotten the Kraft Dinner. It's a burnt mess, same as the soup, and she adds a little laughter to her tears when she notices.

She can't do a damn thing without him.

"‘Cause I’m mad as hellCan’t bring myself to do what it is you think I shouldWhat it is you think I should"

So maybe, she wants him back. Like fucking burning. She'll last another day or two without him, she's sure, but then she'll want it all. She'll want everything; she'll want him.